My Favourite Things: Getting to Know You Remix
by MidniteMarauder
Summary: Kio likes lots of things, but some things he likes more than others.


**Author's Notes: **Written for the 2007 remixredux exchange. This story is a remix of Inksheddings' story, "Five Things Kio Likes". Thanks to paranoidsistah and greenspine for the beta/readthrough and advice. For Nessa with love. :)

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**One**

At the age of eighteen months, Kaido Kio picked up his first crayon, and in a very real sense, has yet to put it down.

Of course crayons became brushes and paints by age four, his first sumi-e kit, cakes of washable watercolours and flimsy, bamboo brushes, but it wasn't the materials that were important. What mattered was the freedom with which they empowered him. Anything he could imagine, he could draw, paint, realize, and bring it into existence. His family was not wealthy and they could not afford exotic travel, and his father worked such long hours that they rarely had the luxury of even local travel. So if Kio couldn't see the world, he brought the world to him, in vivid brushstrokes and subtle shadings, from the wide sweeping vistas of the distant Alps and Himalayas to the tiniest ruffled feather on a turtledove's wing. He didn't much fancy reading for the stories themselves as for the pictures the words drew in his mind. His world was awash in shapes and colours.

His father wasn't very impressed with his talents. He never went so far as to forbid them, but neither did he encourage them. For a long time Kio wondered if his father would ever be able to look at him without also looking as though he'd tasted something dreadfully sour. Perhaps he had. After all, a son's duty was to please and honour his father, especially when one was an only son, and Kio had discovered rather early on that he would never be able live up to his father's expectations. His father lived in a world of tradition, a stark black and white world where even grey was unwelcome, and that was something that Kio didn't think he could ever abide.

Kio was thirteen years old when his father passed away. He felt a tremendous sense of guilt and shame at the knowledge that he had failed his father. After the cremation, he retreated to his bedroom while the family gathered in mourning downstairs, staring around at the brightly decorated walls, the half-finished picture on his easel in the corner, and the drying paints and other detritus that had sat untouched for days. Slowly, he rose from his bed with a sigh and began taking down the pictures from the walls.

"Kio-kun," his grandmother's voice sounded from outside his door. He paused for a moment, then continued with his task

"Kio-kun," she said again. "I know you're in there. Please, may I come in?"

Slowly he shuffled to the door and opened it. "Yes, Obaasan. I'm sorry."

His grandmother entered and he watched her as she looked around the room, her expression calm and thoughtful. She walked over to his bed and laid a careful finger on the top-most picture on the pile. "I've always loved this one. Have you grown tired of it?"

Kio shrugged.

She walked over to the easel, stepping lightly around the drying paints and brush-filled cups of murky water, and brought her finger to her chin, cocking her head just slightly, and looked at the half-finished painting. She glanced over at him, and he bit his lip and looked down at his feet. "Sorry about the mess," he mumbled.

She laughed then, a sound like the tinkling of a bell. "If a mess is the price of such beauty, then it is well worth it."

Kio looked up at her words, his mouth forming a perfect "o", but then he shook his head angrily. "No. I've no more time for, for…" Even in his anger he struggled to find a respectful phrase. "…for childish pursuits. I'm not a child any longer."

She nodded. "I see. Your mother is still a child to me. But what has age to do with it?"

Still angry, Kio gestured at the remaining pictures on the walls. "This. The silly imaginings of a child. Otousama—" He broke off with a choked sob and turned away in shame.

"Oh, Kio-kun," she said, and he felt her hand upon his shoulder. "Come sit. I will tell you a story."

"I'm too old for stories."

"One is never too old for stories," she scolded. "Now sit and listen well.

_"Once there was a boy who loved to draw. His name was Joji.  
Joji grew up on a farm with lots of brothers and sisters. The others were a big help to their father and mother. But not Joji!  
He did nothing for hours but draw in the dirt with a stick. And what Joji drew was just one thing.  
Cats."(1)_

"But Obaasan, I already know this story," Kio interrupted. "You've told it to me many times."

"Ahh, but have you ever really listened to it?"

"Of course I have. I drew a cat for you the first time you told me."

"Yes, I know. I still have that drawing and I treasure it with all of the others you have given to me."

"It was a terrible picture. I was only four."

She waved away his words. "The story. Have you learned nothing all this time?"

"What do you mean?"

"You, Kio. You are Joji."

"I don't draw cats."

His grandmother shook her head and laughed her bell-tinkling laugh. "You are a stubborn boy. It has nothing to do with cats. Tell me, did Joji's father approve of his art?"

"Of course not."

"And what did his father do?"

"Obaasan," he said, sighing, "you know this story better than I do."

"Yes. But tell me anyway."

He sighed again and curbed his instinct to roll his eyes. "His father was sad that Joji would never be a farmer like him so he sent Joji to be a priest, but he didn't do very well with that either because he couldn't stop drawing cats and the priest sent him home, but he knew his father would be angry so he went to another temple and drew a giant cat which came to life and killed the giant rat, and he became a hero and a famous painter and—"

"Ah," she said, nodding.

"But my pictures aren't special like that one," Kio said, stubbornly shaking his head. "It's different. And that's just a silly children's story."

"Is it really?" She hugged her grandson to her. "My poor Kio-kun. So full of guilt, and unfairly so. You have a gift, my child, a wondrous and glorious gift. You must serve it. That is your path."

"But—"

"But nothing. Was Hokusai childish? Seison Maeda? Utamaro? The Frenchman Monet? It is your path."

"Otousama disapproved."

"Your father was a good man and took care of his family as best he could, but even he was not always wise. There were many things he did not understand."

"Obaasan!"

"I am not speaking ill of the dead. I'm speaking truth to the living. You are full of grief and despair. And guilt. So much guilt." She looked at him and her eyes were sad. "Empty yourself of these things and do not be hasty in your decisions. Your mother understands and accepts your gift, as do I. You will always be your father's son, in name if not in deed. But you are not your father, and you must be free to be Kio. You are a good boy, my Kio-kun, full of love and joy, and a gift for truly seeing the beauty in all things. Follow your path, and do not be afraid where it leads."

**Two**

When Kio was seventeen, he got his first pair of glasses. "Astigmatism," the optometrist had said, and Kio had scowled. He didn't like wearing them and often didn't, unless he really needed them. After all, it wasn't like he still couldn't see without them. He just couldn't see distances all that well.

When he first met Soubi, that first day at university, the first thing he noticed – after how stunningly handsome he was, and how his long, light brown hair lay so prettily over his shoulders and down his back and framed his face where it was cut shorter, and the strange but intriguing white bandages he could glimpse above the collar of his high-necked shirt – was his glasses. Okay, so maybe it wasn't the _first_ thing he noticed. But it was one of the first. He loved the way the simple, round, frameless lenses sat so effortlessly on his lovely straight nose, emphasizing his cheekbones, and how he could wear them so casually without detracting from the deep blue of his eyes – eyes that held both the light of day and the depths of an evening sky. Not that he was looking too closely or anything. In fact, the glasses only seemed to enhance his looks, giving him an air of sophistication that mingled with the set of his shoulders and the grace of his long-fingered hands. The usual things any art student would notice about another, of course.

Kio unwrapped a strawberry Chupa-Chup and popped it into his mouth, and after a slight hesitation and another quick glance at the young man who had taken a seat at an easel across the room from him, dug into his bag for his own glasses. It really was startling how sharper and clearer things looked with them on. Even how the young man's glasses, perched low on his nose as he concentrated on his work, caught a sparkle of reflected light just at the corner when he angled his head, studying his canvas. Kio spent more time concentrating on those glasses and those dazzling sparkles of light than on the assignment, earning a glare of disapproval from the teacher.

"Hi!" Kio said around his half-finished lollipop, gathering up his bag and falling in next to the young man. "I'm Kaido Kio. But you can call me Kio."

The young man nodded without looking or breaking stride and said nothing.

Unruffled, Kio continued. "So, you got a name?"

"Yes," the young man replied and continued walking.

"Are you going to tell me what it is?"

"Perhaps," the man said, and then stopped abruptly, his expression drawing inward, almost as though he were listening to a voice only he could hear. Kio was about to ask him if something was wrong when, without a word or glance, the young man walked swiftly away, pushed through a crowd of students, and exited the building.

Kio stared after him, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly, and he nearly dropped his lollipop. He narrowed his eyes, ignoring the various greetings of fellow students as they passed. He wasn't sure whether or not to be insulted, but he was certainly determined now. Or at least intrigued. Besides, before he'd stopped and gotten that strange look on his face, Kio could have sworn he saw the corner of the young man's lip quirk up ever so slightly.

**Three**

He'd known Maki since they were six years old. She wasn't especially pretty, but she had a light about her that Kio had been drawn to, and she was friendly and funny with a smile that could brighten the darkest corner. She didn't mind that he liked kissing boys more than he liked kissing girls, in fact she found that fascinating, and she hadn't laughed at him when he told her he wanted to have his ears pierced. In fact, she'd insisted on going with him after school.

"So what do you think? The fake diamond studs or the onyx?" he asked her.

"Hmmm," she said, frowning. "I think I like the small silver hoops for you."

"I can't get hoops yet. The lady said it has to be a stud earring to start and I can change them in a couple of weeks."

"Oh. Well then I'd go with the black ones. They're not real onyx are they? But you should definitely buy these hoops for later."

"Hmmm. You really think they're 'me'?" he asked, holding the hoops up next to his ear.

"Absolutely," she replied, smiling.

"So which ones are you getting?" he asked.

"Me?" she said, shaking her head. "My mother would kill me if I had them pierced without asking her first."

"But you're fifteen. That's certainly old enough. It's not as if you'd be coming home earless," he said, grinning and rubbing his own recently de-eared head.

"She'd really kill me if I did that! Okay, I'll ask her."

"Good. And I'll come with you. Maybe I'll get another one," he said, moving to another display case. "Oooh, these look pretty neat. Maybe I'll have my tongue pierced."

Maki shuddered. "Wouldn't that hurt? And besides, look at the instructions – you wouldn't be able to talk for days. And no kissing! And no—" She broke off in a fit of giggles. "Definitely not for you!"

"What's so funny?"

She pointed to the information pamphlet and dissolved in another fit of giggles.

"What? Okay, the no talking wouldn't be so great, and ugh, no solid food, but it doesn't say I can't have my Chupa-Chups. No kissing would be bad, yeah, okay but as long as it doesn't say no oral se—Aaaagh! For two weeks?"

Maki shrieked with laughter. "Your—your face!"

Kio put his arm around her neck and tugged her close to him, mussing her hair with his other hand and playfully fondling her ears. "Hey! No teasing!" he said, grinning. "Right, okay. No tongue piercing."

She pulled away from him, still laughing and trying to smooth her hair, and stuck her tongue out at him. She moved down the counter a little further and turned back to him, a mischievous glint in her eye as she stared directly at his crotch. "How about a Prince Albert or a Frenum?"

**Four**

For two weeks, Kio has slept with his cell phone next to his pillow, the ringer volume turned up as high as it can go, waiting for that dreaded phone call to come. And for two weeks, Kio has, once he is able to relax and clear his mind, slept soundly through the night with nary a 'missed call' message in sight.

Still, he is wary, tension coiled so tight that he's actually snapped at Soubi with no provocation several times this week. Another Aoyagi. Seimei's _brother_! Forget that the kid is only twelve, Kio knows the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree.

The fact that the kid is adorably cute has nothing to do with it either; Seimei had been strikingly good looking and very charming, with a disarming smile, a voice sweet as Mirin and rich as the finest Awamori liquor, and an easy manner. Kio had loathed him from the start. Everything about him had served as a distraction for what lay beneath the surface, and while Kio appreciates and even worships beauty, he had not been fooled. Jealousy, he'd told himself, had nothing to do with it.

He'd been prepared and even willing to loathe this new Aoyagi from the start, too, and he had certainly tried. This boy, this _child_, who held Soubi in the palm of his hand, upon whom Soubi had willingly bestowed the power to enslave and devastate and break him…and he had not accepted it. Had, or so it appeared in fact, rejected it. Kio continues to watch his friend with an uneasy wariness, watching and waiting for the steel trap to close its sharp teeth around his scarred neck, waiting to rush in and pick up the pieces as he has done for far too long and far too often. Oh, he whines and nags like the good wife he is, and not a day goes by without accusations of perverted and deviant behaviour—twelve!—and half-hearted (but deeply heartfelt) offers to play surrogate, but this young Aoyagi brat is not playing by the established rules.

And then there is Soubi himself. Soubi has changed. Small things that only he would notice, having watched Soubi so closely since, well, since before they'd even properly met. When Soubi calls him—calls him! Soubi never called unless he needed help!—and asks him to bring over processed, store-made Bento boxes and even 'junk food' from the local convenience store, Kio finally decides he needs to take matters into his own hands. Soubi hasn't introduced him to this Aoyagi Ritsuka and doesn't seem very likely to, so if Soubi wants to keep secrets, Kio will simply have to ferret them out himself.

"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Sou-chan," he tells him as Soubi is leaving the art studio, making a great show to look busy and preoccupied. "I'll bring breakfast."

"Thank you, Kio," Soubi says absently, glancing up at the clock on the wall and striding swiftly out the door.

Kio counts slowly to ten before grabbing his bag and following his friend. Once he gets outside, he tries to walk slowly, casually, normally, but his impatience warring with his curiosity gets the better of him. He hurriedly ducks behind a parked car when Soubi pauses at an intersection before crossing, and curses himself for his lack of stealth. When he turns a corner and sees Soubi leaning back against a brick wall, smoking, he jumps back, tiptoeing over to a large tree and peering around the edge. He hears a bell and realizes that this must be the Aoyagi brat's school.

A few minutes later, the brat is there, accompanied by a tall girl with pigtails, and Kio's eyes bulge when she turns and he can see her profile. She has bigger tits than most of the girls he knows at university, and he snickers to himself, wondering if Soubi is jealous as the girl hugs the brat, her tits practically rubbing against his chin, before waving cheerfully and skipping off towards his hiding spot. Damn.

He ducks back behind the tree and waits until she has passed before daring to peer out again, but Soubi and the brat are no longer there. _Damn it!_ Since they hadn't passed him, he presumes they've walked off in the other direction, and he hurries down the street, past the school and the students streaming out the front gates.

He finally catches up with them two blocks later and slows his pace. They are holding hands and walking, but he's too far away to hear any conversation. He follows them to a park and waits for them to enter before creeping up to the entrance and peeking around a brick pillar. A passing elderly woman gives him a scandalized look and tut-tuts at him, but he ignores her, craning his neck to see which direction his quarry have gone. There!

He creeps from tree to tree, trying to blend in with crowds of people strolling, and sees they have stopped and sat at a picnic table. There's a stand of trees nearby, but only open space between, so he follows a path that leads off to the side and circles around carefully until he comes to the tree closest to their table. He still can't hear them very well, but he can watch.

The brat has a camera and they are taking more pictures of each other. A middle aged couple stroll by and offer to take some of the two of them together, obviously mistaking the perversion of the relationship and likely thinking they're brothers or perhaps cousins, because when Soubi leans over and kisses a blushing Ritsuka on the cheek for one pose, the woman fawns and practically squeals with delight.

The ungrateful brat pushes Soubi away with a loud, "Soooooubi!" and Soubi laughs, a glorious laugh full of joy and mischief, and Kio freezes at the sound. Soubi had never laughed with Seimei. Soubi rarely laughs at all, though Kio can usually get him to chuckle and grin, eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth. But Soubi's mirth has always been restrained, leaning towards clever sarcasm and a dryer wit, held in check and never unleashed, certainly never so freely as this.

Kio watches them for a little longer, watches as Soubi speaks softly and Ritsuka yells back at him, his young, high voice carrying on the wind.

"I told you! I'm not going to give you orders!"

"Stop that! Why do you _do_ that?"

"Can't you ever do _anything_ normal?"

Kio finds that he is chuckling at the brat's words, despite himself. But regardless of the exasperated tone, Kio can clearly see the obvious affection this young boy has for his friend, and he sits down heavily on the leaf-strewn ground. He watches them leave a little while later, Ritsuka's tiny hand slipping into Soubi's larger one as he skips alongside. The sun has moved closer toward the horizon and the wind has picked up, and still he sits, taking in everything he has seen and heard, comparing it to his memories of a taller, darker, sly and selfish boy with the same face.

Finally, cramped from sitting in the same position for so long, he stands and dusts himself off, stretching his legs and raising his arms over his head, arching his back. Dusk has fallen and the park is empty. Time to go home. And he is hungry.

He reaches into his bag and grabs an orange Chupa-Chup, careful to toss the wrapper in a nearby trash bin. It has nothing to do with jealousy, he decides. And he still doesn't like this Aoyagi kid. Doesn't like him at all. Well, not much, anyway.

**Five**

"Obaasan," Kio calls, pocketing his key and closing the door behind him, and sets his cumbersome package down on the floor.

"Oh, Kio-kun," his grandmother replies, walking slowly out into the small living room aided by an old wooden cane. She kisses him on the cheek and smiles, her eyes warm and welcoming. "I wasn't expecting you today. What a lovely surprise."

"It's a day for surprises. I've brought you another," he says, leading her over to the small sofa and then retrieving the package.

Her eyes sparkle as he sets it down on the floor in front of her, a large flat rectangle wrapped in brown paper. "Open it for me," she says. "My fingers are not as nimble as they once were."

"You just want me to do all the work," he teases, tearing away the paper and revealing the painting beneath, the painting that had finally earned him top marks from his rather disagreeable teacher.

"Oh, Kio!" His grandmother brings her hands to her mouth, and tears prickle at the corners of her eyes. "You remembered."

"Of course I did," he says, setting the painting on the table and carefully leaning it against a heavy bronze urn. He kneels down beside her and takes her hand in his, and says more softly, "Of course I remember."

"It's beautiful," she says, and she smiles through her tears. "It's the most beautiful cat I've ever seen. And it has no need to magically come to life, it already is alive, right there on the canvas. I'm so proud of you, my little Kio-kun."

"Obaasan," he says and blushes, though he's actually very pleased by her praise. He loves his mother, but his grandmother is most precious to him. It was her encouragement along with her love that had helped make Kio the man he is today, for good or ill, and while he is far from perfect, not the most handsome of men, or even the brightest, and certainly not the most talented artist, he is Kio, and he likes being Kio.

She pats the seat next to her. "Come. Come sit and tell me of your adventures at the university."

"There's not much to tell, really. Classwork keeps me busy, and I've made some friends."

"Any boyfriends?" she teases, and now Kio does blush. She's known about his preferences since before he'd even lost his ears, somehow without his even having to tell her, and while he isn't the least bit ashamed, it's still his grandmother and such bawdy talk from her lips will always make him blush.

He hesitates a moment too long and she pounces. She may not be nimble of finger, but her mind is still sharp as a tack. "Oooh. Tell me! Is he handsome?"

"Obaasan! He's _not_ my boyfriend. Just a friend, honestly, but," he bites his lip and then grins, "but yes, he's very handsome. You'd like him."

"Then you must bring him by for tea one day," she says.

"Oh, no! It's not that I don't trust you, but…"

"But?" she prods, a twinkle in her eye.

"But I don't trust you," he says, and they both laugh, her bell-like laugh filling him with joy. "Even if you promised to be on your best behaviour, you'd never last."

"Is he that handsome?" she asks, still smiling.

"Yes," he says, "but he's also my best friend. And he's already a terrible tease, so I won't have you giving him any more ammunition against me."

"Would I do that?" she asks, and her expression is wounded, but her eyes tell him different.

"Yes." He nods. "Yes, you would."

"That is because you are even more handsome when you blush," she says, touching his chin softly. She turns his head to the side. "Oh, my, you've had another piercing, haven't you."

"You noticed!" he says with glee and stands up. "Let me make us some tea, and I'll tell you all about it. And about Soubi, too."

"Soubi?"

"Uh-uh," he says, turning to waggle his finger at her. "Tea first."

As he spoons tea leaves into the old ceramic pot, he smiles. Of course he'll bring Soubi to meet his grandmother one day, and he knows she knows this as well. But he loves how they tease each other and the easy way they have. He loves her dearly, not just because she's his grandmother, and not just because he can talk to her as a friend and not just a grandson, unusual as that might be, but he loves her because she lets him be himself. And she likes who he is, imperfections and quirks and all. And most importantly, she taught _him_ to like who he is, too.

_-fin-_

**Notes:** (1) Taken (without permission) from the Aaron Shepard translation of The Boy Who Drew Cats from _Gleanings from Buddha-Fields, _by Lafcadio Hearn, Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1897.


End file.
